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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27868337">The Flood May Bear Me Far</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompostWitch/pseuds/CompostWitch'>CompostWitch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>English and Scottish Popular Ballads - Francis James Child, The Magnus Archives (Podcast), The Wife of Usher's Well (Traditional Ballad), Twa Corbies (Traditional Song)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ballad-Typical Sadness, Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Gen, I definitely forgot Salesa disappeared shhhhh, I was seized by the Spirit of Trad Songs Past and this fic was the result, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mild Suicidal Ideation, Minor Character Death, No beta we kayak like Tim, POV Outsider, Songfic, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), The Tundra Cargo Ship (The Magnus Archives), convoluted excuse for sea shanty on modern ship, my very first fic con crit welcome, set in early season 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:28:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,693</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27868337</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompostWitch/pseuds/CompostWitch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A bereaved sailor has come bearing songs. The Tundra's silence muffles them, at least at first. (aka "Sad Sea Shanties")</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Flood May Bear Me Far</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All songs quoted in the fic are linked in the end note, in case you want to listen to them or just read the full lyrics.</p><p>Minor extra content note: loss of housing due to inability to pay.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Statement of Lyn Tomsson, regarding an unusual experience at sea. Statement given December 10th, 2018.</p><p> </p><p>Is it weird for a modern, container-ship sailor to be a fan of old maritime ballads and shanties? They're not really <em>useful</em> any more. Shanties are work songs with short phrases and strong rhythms, meant to cheer and coordinate a crew as they hauled on ropes or performed some other task that required them to synchronize their physical efforts. There aren't many tasks like that on a modern ship, so it might seem a bit pointless. And it's definitely not me romanticizing shipboard life; sailing is still brutal work, just brutal in different ways now. My love for the songs definitely doesn't mean I want to return to the good old days of scurvy and flogging.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>I'd been living in Bergen with my partner Janne, trying to find a good job on land. Then they died, and their parents had frozen me out of their will, so I couldn't afford our flat any more without their software engineer salary. I was pretty desperate, so I went down to the container port to see if any ships had a last-minute vacancy, and I found an irritable first officer wearing an antique brass bosun's call on a lanyard around his neck. He hired me aboard the Tundra, bound for Port of Tilbury, London, across the North Sea.</p><p>At 7am the next day I reported to a dockside warehouse to meet with the first officer and a couple of other crew. A silent, frosty older man who could only have been the captain. A well-heeled gentleman who spoke smoothly and ten times as <em>much</em> as anyone else, who had brought us some last-minute, "sensitive" cargo. And one other young fellow, who seemed a bit at loose ends.</p><p>He was wearing a proper thick cable-knit jumper like everyone else, but below it were business casual sort of slacks, and I could see the collar of a button-down peeking out at the neckline. Landlubber office clothes, not sailor's workwear. He stood attentively beside the captain, holding a clipboard, but not actually doing anything as the first officer seemed to have matters well in hand. There was a tightness around his eyes, creases too many and too deep for his young face, that spoke of lost sleep and compact ages of worry.</p><p>The Tundra was almost ready to depart. All the containers were already loaded, but we had those "sensitive" wooden crates still to bring aboard. It was blowing something nasty that day, and when we opened the cargo bay doors, we could feel the salt spray reaching our faces all the way from the water. The well-heeled gentleman scowled and said something about the cargo "not liking" to be touched by salt. The first officer ordered the crates wrapped up in huge plastic tarps to safely make the journey from warehouse to hold.</p><p>Later, once we were under way and the weather had improved, I was up on deck with a couple of other crew, shaking out the tarps to dry them off before we packed them away. It took two people to a tarp, so I tossed off some throwaway line about rhythm, and started up a call-and-response.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
When I was just a little lad, or so me mammy told me,<br/>
Way, haul away, haul away Joe.<br/>
That if I didn't kiss the boys me lips would grow all moldy.<br/>
Way, haul away, haul away Joe.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>	Way, hey! Haul away, we'll haul for better weather!<br/>
Way, haul away, haul away Joe.<br/>
Way, hey! Haul away, we'll haul away together...<br/>
</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>No one joined in on the responses. I only got handful of lines in before my voice just... died off into the silence and annoyed looks. One of the senior crew glared <em>daggers</em> at me from under his blue kerchief, but he took up beating his foot to the rhythm I had set. We got the tarps squared away and I kept my mouth firmly shut.</p><p>I suppose I don't need to tell you that that left a very weird taste in my mouth. But I was really missing the song circle that Janne and I used to attend in Bergen. There's truly nothing like lifting up your voice and joining it with a dozen friends and strangers. So the next morning, I decided to give it another go. A few of us were sat around the galley having breakfast, and someone made a reference to that one time they'd run out of coffee, which reminded me of an odd song I'd picked up in New Zealand about the resupply boats that used to service the old whalers.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
For forty days or even more,<br/>
The line went slack, then tight once more.<br/>
All boats were lost, there were only four,<br/>
And still that whale did go.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>	Soon may the Wellerman come,<br/>
To bring us sugar and tea and rum.<br/>
One day, when the tonguin' is done,<br/>
We'll take our leave and go.<br/>
</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>...I gave up pretty fast. But the whole morning, no, the whole day, I got hostile stares. By noon I was jumpy, and I'd stopped meeting people's eyes except when necessary. By evening, the jumpiness had gone and left behind a feeling of dreadful resignation; clearly, this was not going to be a pleasant voyage on which I could make friends. By nightfall, a thick fog had rolled in, bringing a bone-chilling cold that seemed to reach even into the four-person cabin that I somehow had all to myself.</p><p>That night, and the two next, I had a horrifically vivid dream. I could see my old flat, my old neighborhood -- but a band of roiling sea water lay between me and my home. I was stood on a tall rocky island, all cliffs and no beaches, and I knew it was too far down to jump and too stormy to swim without risking death. Slowly the band of sea grew wider and wider, and my home drifted farther and farther away. It became shrouded in thick fog so gradually that, much as I strained my eyes, I could not be quite sure of the exact moment when it left my sight.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The third morning I was on deck, cleaning something unimportant, and I heard the last thing I expected: someone <em>else</em> singing. The clear tenor caught my attention immediately, but although I couldn't hear the words I knew it wasn't a song you could join in on. It sounded like an old Scots ballad, the interminable kind with no chorus, that you just sit and listen to. I crept quietly toward the voice, not wanting to startle whoever it might be, till I turned a corner and saw who it was, heard the words. It was the misplaced young man from the warehouse, singing the tale of three dead brothers who by their mother's grief are summoned back to the living world for a single night. He was stood at the rail, staring out to sea, with the most palpable feeling of hopelessness rolling off him in waves.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
The cock he had nae crow'd but once,<br/>
Nor clapp'd his wings at a',<br/>
When the youngest to the eldest said,<br/>
"Brother, we must awa'!</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>"The cock doth crow, the day doth dawn,<br/>
The channerin' worm doth chide;<br/>
If we be missed out o' our place,<br/>
A sore pain we will bide.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>"Fare ye well, my mither dear!<br/>
Farewell to barn and byre!<br/>
And fare ye well, thou bonny lad<br/>
That kindles my mither's fire."<br/>
</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>I didn't strike up a conversation; something in the tension of his posture told me that would be a poor idea. But I did catch his eye. He looked away, coloured a little and made as if to leave -- but I didn't want him to, so I started singing in the hopes that he would stay. He looked back at me curiously and settled down to listen. Once I was sure he wasn't going to run away out of embarrassment, I let my gaze fall from his face and drift out over the sea.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
As I was walkin' all alone<br/>
I heard two ravens making moan;<br/>
The one unto the other did say O,<br/>
"Where shall we go and dine the day O,<br/>
Where shall we go and dine the day?"</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>	"It's in behind yon fallen dyke<br/>
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;<br/>
And naebody knows that he lies there O,<br/>
But his hawk and his hound and his laddie fair O,<br/>
Hawk and his hound and his laddie fair."</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>	"His hawk is to the huntin' gone,<br/>
His hound to bring the wild fowl home;<br/>
His laddie's ta'en another mate O,<br/>
So we may make our dinner swete O,<br/>
So we may make our dinner swete."</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>	“It's ye'll sit on his white breast bane,<br/>
And I'll pike out his bonny blue eyen;<br/>
Wi' a lock o' his gowden hair O,<br/>
We'll thatch our nest when it grows bare O,<br/>
We'll thatch our nest when it grows bare."</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>	"There's many a one for him makes moan,<br/>
But none shall know where he is gone;<br/>
And o'er his bones when they lie bare O,<br/>
The winds'll blaw for ever mair O,<br/>
The winds'll blaw for ever mair."<br/>
</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>I glanced up and the young man favoured me again with a thoughtful gaze. He did not smile, or frown, or indeed show any expression. After a long moment, he nodded as though I'd confirmed something he already knew, and turned to go below decks.</p><p> </p><p>That night, I had the 11pm to 1am watch, which is not the worst one, but I felt like utter garbage. The bitter cold hadn't gone away, and despite my thick jumper and heavy jacket, I felt fingers of fog curling in my hair, up my sleeves, under my collar. Since I thought I was completely by myself, I indulged in a song that was usually one of my least favorites, for the way it wallows in misery.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
I shipped on board of a whaling barque, we were bound for the Greenland seas,<br/>
Where cold winds blow through frost and snow, why Jamaica rum would freeze!<br/>
And worst to bear, I'd no hard weather gear, as I'd spent all my money ashore.<br/>
It was then that I wished that I was dead and could go to sea no more.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>	No more, no more, go to sea no more,<br/>
It was then that I wished that I was dead and could go to sea no more.<br/>
</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>My watch had almost ended when I heard a radio crackle to life behind me: <strong>"... area forecasts for the next twenty-four hours. Viking, North Utsire, South Utsire: North 4 or 5, becoming Lost in South Viking. Rain. Poor. Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Forsook: East or Nowhere 1 or 2. Fog. Extensive Fog. Later, Extreme Fog. Tyne, Dogger..."</strong></p><p>I whipped around to see the captain watching me from the bridge. What was <em>he</em> doing there, checking the weather at quarter of one in the morning? His stare was... gentle, but it seemed to pin me down nonetheless. I felt a hot wash of embarrassment trickle over my face as I realized, if I could hear the radio from here, he must have been able to hear me singing. Singing <em>melodramatically</em> about how I'd rather be dead than have this job. But he only held my eyes for a moment, then looked away pointedly, and I fled to my berth as soon as I felt could move again.</p><p>After that, for whatever reason, it got easier. The fog stayed, but the nightmares stopped, and the hostile stares were replaced by indifference. I wasn't sleeping much better, though, as I started to hear moaning and thrashing noises at night from the berth next door to mine, somehow making it through the ship's unusually effective soundproofing. I hoped I might see the lost young man again, but I never caught another glimpse of him. Only once did I hear him singing again, a snatch of a song I didn't know, in a language I didn't recognize, but I thought sounded Eastern European -- lot of consonants. I hurried to find him, but by the time I reached where he must have been, he had left, or perhaps never been there at all.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A few nights later, the fog thickened so dramatically that visibility was near zero even with the high-powered ship's lights, and the captain had us drop anchor instead of sailing through the night. One of my fellows woke me up in the middle of the night, even though I didn't have watch duty, and ordered me to bring a cask of drinking water to the lifeboats. I was still half asleep and so confused that I didn't think to question it until the cold air up on deck finally woke me fully. There were two others waiting there by the davits, and a third -- the senior crew man with the blue kerchief, already lain in the lifeboat as if dead asleep. I started to ask what was going on and if he was all right, but a harsh look from my fellows shut me right up.</p><p>We all got in, launched the boat, and drove until I lost sight of the Tundra. I couldn't believe the sleeping man didn't wake at the noise of the engine or the crashing of the waves, but he slept on, as if he'd been drugged. Shortly we came in sight of a small rocky island, and I was afraid we were going to crash into its cliffs, but we maneuvered around to a tiny drift of sand barely large enough to pull the boat up onto. The others motioned me to bring the cask of water, then they picked up the sleeping man and carried him out. We staggered up a narrow, rocky path to the top of the island -- I still can't believe none of us fell to our deaths. They set him down, I set down the cask beside him, and then we all turned around and left. We just... left. Picked up the lifeboat, and returned to the Tundra.</p><p>We stood at anchor there for five days. Longer than it takes to die of dehydration. Far shorter than it takes to starve.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>I was playing Solitaire in my berth when I nearly fell out of my chair as, out of nowhere, the ship's horn blew and I felt the engines start up again. I ran up onto the deck to see what was happening. It was sunset -- an odd time to weigh anchor, I thought -- and I realized, this was the first we'd seen of the sun in nearly a week. That thick fog had finally dissipated enough that our visiblity wasn't horrendously impeded, and I wondered why no one else was up on deck to enjoy the view. Then I jumped -- from behind me -- from the <em>bridge</em> -- I suddenly heard an unfamiliar baritone voice, singing a song I didn't know.</p><p>The voice had an odd quality in it that I couldn't place. I listened intently through several verses before I realized: the singer must be smiling, no, grinning broadly enough to split his face open. It sounded so unfamiliar because, for the first time all voyage, I was listening to someone trying his damnedest not to laugh.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
Old Horn to All Atlantic said:<br/>
    O hey O! To me O!<br/>
"Now where did Frankie learn his trade?<br/>
For he ran me down with a three-reef mains'l,<br/>
    All around the Horn!"</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>	Atlantic answered: "Not from me!"<br/>
    O hey O! To me O!<br/>
"You'd better ask the cold North Sea,<br/>
For he ran me down under all plain canvas,<br/>
    All around the Horn!"</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>	The North Sea answered: "He's my man,"<br/>
    O hey O! To me O!<br/>
"For he came to me when he began --<br/>
It's Frankie Drake in an open coaster,<br/>
    All around the Sands!"</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>	"I caught him young and I used him sore,"<br/>
    O hey O! To me O!<br/>
"So you never shall startle Frankie more,<br/>
Without capsizing Earth and all of her waters,<br/>
    All around the Sands!"</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>[...]</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>	So storm along, my gallant Captain,<br/>
    All around the Horn!<br/>
</em></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic was inspired by, of all things, a delightfully silly Peter Lukas cosplay Tiktok. The cosplayer kindly introduced me to the shanty album Between Wind and Water by The Longest Johns. I listened to the whole thing in one go, and it reminded me more than anything of just how <em>bleak</em> a lot of traditional Anglophone folk songs are... so of course the fic came out sad. I wrote it as a love letter, not only to The Magnus Archives, but also to Between Wind and Water, all sea shanties, and the entire Anglo Scots Irish American Canadian Australian New Zealander folk song tradition. And especially to song circles, an early casualty of COVID-19.</p><p>The songs referenced are:<br/>* <a href="https://mainlynorfolk.info/louis.killen/songs/haulawayforrosie.html">Haul Away Joe</a> -- these lyrics are from The Longest Johns version, but every shanty musician is legally obliged to record this song.<br/>* <a href="https://thelongestsong.fandom.com/wiki/Wellerman">Wellerman</a> (as sung by The Longest Johns)<br/>* <a href="https://mainlynorfolk.info/steeleye.span/songs/thewifeofusherswell.html">The Wife of Usher's Well</a> (as sung by Alison McMorland)<br/>* <a href="https://mainlynorfolk.info/steeleye.span/songs/twacorbies.html">Twa Corbies</a> (as sung by Ray Fisher)<br/>* <a href="https://thelongestsong.fandom.com/wiki/Off_to_Sea">Off to Sea</a> (as sung by The Longest Johns)<br/>* <a href="https://mainlynorfolk.info/peter.bellamy/songs/frankiestrade.html">Frankie's Trade</a> (words by Rudyard Kipling, set to music by Peter Bellamy) </p><p>I took a few liberties with the lyrics -- Anglicized a lot of the Scots language, swapped a couple lines, and (of course) made everything gayer.</p><p>If you're not familiar with the BBC Shipping Forecast, please check out <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26630503/chapters/64936729">Forecast at the End of the World</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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